A Butchers Tale
by Mr. Cuddles needs hugs
Summary: Macellaio Di Giudizio, The Butcher of Judgement, his story, a tale of pain and hate, the legacy of destruction. A gift for the rpers at Nuova World RP that gave me the motivation to write :
1. Chapter 1 HIs Hate

**Ok this story is for all my KHR peps, you know who you are.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn or its story, I own SOME of these OC's and this stories plot**

A young man, around his 30's walked through the halls of a large Italian Villa, he came to a stop at the door to a balcony, on it sat a man with skin as black as the night sky, and odd white marking on his "face" which had no eyes, mouth or nose, nor ears. The figure was dressed in a red trench coat and grey slacks.

"You've come, why?" it asked, its voice dark and full of burden.

The man cleared his throat, "We both know I never liked you, you abandoned the family in its darkest hour and then just waltzed back, my Mother Forgave you but I never have."

"So?" the figure asked.

"Well, My Mother, YOUR Boss, told me to come here and listen to your 'story'." He said.

"..." the figure was silent before speaking "Sit beside me." He gestured to a seat which the man took. "Allow me to tell you my story, it's not a pretty one, I'm not sure it has a happy ending, and it's a long story…."

"Whatever, just hurry up." The man scoffed.

"Impatient as ever, my story begins when I was a boy in Russia, almost 300 years ago, before Vongola Primo, before Sogno, before Dieing Will Flames were used by everyone in the mafia, before we knew they existed, this is a story of the Miracles."

A young boy with a head of black hair ran through the snowy streets of Moscow. He was dressed in a thin, ratty coat with a red scarf and ripped pants, his shoes where held together by string and cords. He was breathing heavily, he could hear shouts behind him as he ran, he knew he couldn't stop, if he stopped they would catch him. He clutched the bread he had stolen to his chest, if he lost it, he wouldn't eat. He turned a corner and crouched in a dark corner behind a garbage can, a man with a butcher's cleaver ran by shouting "THIEF! When I get you I'll chop your thieving hands off!" when he passed the boy snuck out and ran the other way.

He ran till he got to a small shack in the slums of the city, he went in and set the bread on a small, barley standing wooden table.

The shack was simple, a pillow and pile of blankets for a bed, a small fire place with a pot and a rickety wooden table. This was all he had, all he needed to survive.

After all, when you're born an orphan, you have nothing, when you are too young to work, you can gain nothing. And when no one will stop to aid you, you learn to need nothing and no one. He had learned this early, his name is Kraven, and though he didn't know it then, he was destined for more than anyone could imagine…

It was happening again, the same thing, almost like clockwork, happened every week. He would be walking along the road, looking for anything to eat or money to buy food, clothes, a blanket. He would look at their eyes as he passed them, as they pushed past him and bumped him to the ground, those eyes that looked at him, but didn't acknowledge he was there, like he didn't exist.

He hated those eyes, and more so the people with those eyes.

He hated people, he hated their governments, their culture, he hated their existence.

His eyes, unlike their, acknowledged their existence, and his eyes, the door to his soul, showed only his hate.

He would always ponder, why didn't the acknowledge him?

Because he was poor? Because he was homeless? Why him? What did he do?

He was born, that was always the answer he came up with, his crime was that he was born.

He did not know love, happiness or warmth in his life, he never had family, these things were alien to him, he knew what it was like to be alone, he knew what it was like to not exist.

He hated those eyes that didn't acknowledge his existence, so he would do anything to have them see him, purposely fail at picking a pocket, get caught stealing, start a fight that he knew he couldn't win.

If he did those things then the eyes were different, they acknowledged him, but the hated him, and he was content with that. He knew nothing else then loneliness and hate, all other things were alien to him. And when they hated him, he couldn't hate them back, he could only be content. But when they were done beating him, taking what he stole, mugging him, he hated them again, as they left they once again didn't acknowledge he existed.

Sometime when he couldn't sleep he pondered on it, he thought about a lot of things, when there is no one to talk to, you find you have a lot of time and things to think about.

And he always questioned, did he exist? How does one prove they exist? Only through his hate and pain, and the hate and pain of others did he know he existed.

This thought alone one night alone led to the decision that would change many things to come, that would create a legacy of fear and destruction, this thought would bore a being so powerful, no one dare cross it, something that could kill the immortal,

Something that would create Miracles….

He would prove he existed, through becoming stronger, then everyone, he would destroy whatever he saw, and prove to them he existed. He would cause pain, he would breed hate, and he would love it….

Yes, he would prove he existed, with his hate…


	2. Chapter 2 The First Tool

**Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn or its story, I own SOME of these OC's and this stories plot**

He hated it… his own weakness.

He couldn't defend himself, he couldn't seek justice against those that wronged him, he was weak.

These were thoughts that ran through his mind as he was beaten senseless in an alley. Kraven curled up into a ball as 4 men stood around him and kicked at his body, punched his still form and yelled obscenities.

Kraven loved these people, the pain they gave him reminded him of his existence, but he hated his own weakness.

When the bombardment of fists and feet stopped, when the vulgar words faded and the men left he stayed there, cold and bloody in the snow thinking, much like he always did.

He knew his goal, to make the entire world recognize his existence, he would use pain and fear, he would use power like no other, but he had no tools to reach this goal, that's what he needed, a tool.

Everyone had tools,

The thief had his lock picks.

The Soldier his gun.

The butcher his cleaver.

The politician, his words.

The writer his pen and ink.

The miner his pick axe.

Everyone had a tool, except him. The true problem though, what tool did he need? Where was his tool, what did it look like, what does it do? He didn't know, but he searched everywhere, looking for his tool, the thing that would allow him his justice, his dream.

After a good 10 minutes Kraven used the wall of the alley to stand up, he leaned his weight against it as his broken body protested against the movement and his body throbbed as the pain shot through his body. But he ignored it, this pain, it was minuscule compared to his daily suffering, it would take more than this to make him cry out in pain or beg for mercy from the heavens to end the pain. In fact he would never cry to the heavens or beg to any divine being, because there was no such thing in existence, if there was why was he in pain all the time? If there was why couldn't he find the guidance to find the tool he so desperately needed, if there was such a thing as God why did the fat pigs that kill and oppress the people of his country go unpunished?

To him the answer was simple. There is no God. There is no Heaven. The only thing after life on Earth is oblivion.

He walked out of the alley way and limped down the streets, through the crowds of people attending to their daily needs and business, none paying attention to him as he limped and bleed down the street. They would look at him, but their eyes, they looked right past him, he hated those eyes.

Those empty eyes, so apathetic, so uncaring, they say him as below them, but in truth he was above THEM. The strong rule over the weak, he had endured more pain, more suffering then they ever had, then they ever could, and here was still here, still sane. Yes he was stronger than them, so much stronger, and he would prove it, but he couldn't, not without a tool for him to use.

When he managed to limp back to his shack he collapsed on the pile of cloth and old blankets that was his 'bed'. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wonder as he drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams that night he saw something that would change him forever; he was floating in a blissful, endless darkness. But then something pierced the darkness, there was a dull purple light off in the distance of the darkness.

For a long time he just looked at it, but slowly he stood and began to walk, one foot in front of the other toward the light, it was so far away, he walked for hours but it was no closer, then he felt himself waking up, he didn't mind, the light would probably be gone tomorrow when he slept.

He opened his eyes and sat up slowly, flinching in pain, his body protested further as he forced himself to stand, he was still in pain from being mugged yesterday. He wandered out of his shack to attempt to scavenge food somewhere, anywhere; he couldn't steal anything right now, not in his current physical state.

As he wandered the back alleys of the city, hoping to find a restaurant throwing out some semi fresh food, it was his only choice right now, he wouldn't beg, he would never beg. As he searched he in time say a man sitting on the ground against a building, he was slumped over and covered mostly in snow, he didn't need to check for a pulse, this man was no doubt dead. Kraven approached him and knelt down brushing the snow off his body, he took the man's red scarf and ratty brown coat off his body, the dead man wouldn't need it that was for sure.

He looked for money in his pockets, nothing. He put on the jacket and scarf, he was about to turn away when he noticed something in the man's hand. He stared at this item, it was his tool, he knew it.

He kneeled down again and pried it out of the dead man's hand, he held its handle and felt its weight, it felt so natural in his hand. The blade was old and chipped, but it was sharp, and it wasn't rusty, it still had a shine to it. Yes it was perfect. It was his tool, his goals, his dream, it…. It still wasn't attainable, he felt deep down he need one more tool, he didn't know what it was but he would find it… yes he would find it.

But first he had some business to take care of. He walked off intent on finding a few certain muggers…

-10 minutes-

He had found them, and now 4 of the 5 were lifeless corpses on the ground, blood flowed from their necks or wounds in their chest. The last was sitting against an alley wall staring wide eyed at the boy in front of him, the kid wasn't normal, his eyes, they were murderous, but at the same time he pitied the men he was killing. The man was clutching a wound on his belly.

"What the hell, how the fuck-" he was cut off as Kraven slammed his foot onto the man's face with a sickening crack, no doubt breaking the mans nose. When he pulled his foot away the man howled in pain and grabbed his now bleeding, slightly mangled face.

"You little bastard! I'll kill yo-" he was cut off

"Shut up dirty pig. I don't care what you think you can do. Your threats are empty." Kraven said bringing the knife up from his side to point at the man. "I'll be the one killing you now, and I'll take the money from you dead bodies, for all the times you took everything from me, but mostly, I'll kill because I can, that's how the world works."

The man couldn't respond, this kid… he was messed up there was something wrong with him in the head.

"A-are you crazy?" he asked before the knife was shoved into his skull. Kraven pulled it out and looked at the man. The now dead man.

"No, I'm just strong."


End file.
